


The Heart of the Tin Man

by musicprincess1990



Series: Tin Man Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: "Haven't you noticed, Molly?" he asked dryly, turning back to the microscope. "I'm heartless." - This is the first Sherlolly fanfiction I ever wrote, posted on fanfiction(dot)net ages ago, now available here! Part 1 of my Tin Man series, can be read as a stand-alone.





	The Heart of the Tin Man

Everyone always said Sherlock Holmes was heartless.  How could anyone so cold and cutting actually have _feelings_?  After all, he himself had very openly expressed his views on “sentiment,” as he called it.  He viewed it as a weakness, something to avoid at all costs.  What more proof could anyone need?  Sherlock Holmes did _not_ have a heart.

Before long, those who held a less than favorable view of the detective had nicknamed him “Tin Man.”  Most, if not all, of the agents in New Scotland Yard had taken up usage of the moniker, sneering and tossing it in his face.  Lestrade half-heartedly attempted to discourage the name; he knew Sherlock well enough to know that he only showed emotion when it worked to his advantage (usually feigned emotion), or when he believed the situation was truly hopeless (which was rarely the case).  Mrs. Hudson chuckled the first time she heard it, but otherwise made no comment.  John, on the other hand, laughed loudly and heartily.  He understood perfectly where they were coming from.  Even _he_ wanted to punch Sherlock in the face sometimes (most of the time).  But he also knew that his friend felt more deeply than he let on.

As for the man himself, Sherlock found the nickname tedious and unimaginative, and certainly not worth any form of acknowledgment one way or the other.  He ignored it when it was spoken, and forgot it immediately after, only to be recalled in the next occurrence.

The only surprising reaction was that of his preferred (he refused to think the word “favorite”) pathologist, one Molly Hooper.  He arrived at the morgue on a particularly boring day in January, with John at his heels, demanding to examine a series of body parts—nothing out of the norm.  He barked some form of instruction to John, to which he had replied, “Whatever you say, _Tin Man_ ,” with a smirk, before sauntering off to do whatever he’d been told to do.  Sherlock cast an unamused glance in his direction before returning, wordlessly, to his work.

“Why did he call you that?”

“Hmm?”  He didn’t bother looking up from the tissue samples he was observing.

“John just called you ‘Tin Man.’ Why?”

Sherlock inwardly rolled his eyes.  “It would appear that ‘Tin Man’ is my new nickname, very _lovingly_ bestowed upon me by Agent Donovan.”  Molly was uncharacteristically quiet, and Sherlock glanced up to find her watching him with furrowed brows.  _Confused_ , he labeled her expression easily.  He sighed, already bored with the explanation he had yet to provide.  “Haven’t you noticed, Molly?” he asked dryly, turning back to the microscope.  “I’m heartless.”

He heard her make a noise of understanding, then she scoffed.  Sherlock peeked at her from the corner of his eye, and saw irritation written clearly on her face _.  Irritation?_

“Well, that’s a bit silly,” she said.  “Of course you have a heart.”

“Obviously.  I’m still living and breathing, so one can easily deduce that I do, in fact, have a heart.”

Molly was quiet for another moment, then she said, “That’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock froze; what on Earth _did_ she mean mean?  Slowly, he straightened his back, and turned his head to look at her.  Her head was bent low as she peered into her own microscope, her long brown hair sweeping across her shoulder and blocking her face from view.  Sherlock was instantly frustrated.  Why was she hiding from him?  What was she thinking?  And why did it bother him so much that he couldn’t figure it out?  Eventually, when he came to the conclusion that this was a puzzle he could not solve silently, he asked, “Then what _did_ you mean?”

For a long moment, Molly didn’t respond, and he wondered briefly if she’d heard him.  _Of course she heard_ , he mentally scoffed.  _Molly is not deaf.  But she is certainly taking her time coming up with a reply_.  Finally, she stepped back, brushed a stray hair from her forehead, and, finally, answered him.

“When they say you don’t have a heart… they don’t mean _literally_ , you know.  They mean figuratively.”  He blinked twice, waiting for her to continue.  “They mean… that you don’t have any emotions… you don’t feel.”

“That’s obvious,” he deadpanned.

He watched Molly carefully as she deliberated.  She certainly had changed in only a few short years.  The old Molly would be squirming and fidgeting, rarely meeting his eyes, and blushing like a schoolgirl.  This Molly was strong, sure, and met his gaze head-on, unflinching and determined.  In the next moment, she began taking slow, deliberate steps toward him.  Sherlock forced himself to remain still.  Shying away from her would only cause her pain, and make the situation even more awkward.  _Don’t show your discomfort_ , he chanted repeatedly in his mind, even as she came closer and closer.  Her hand touched his shoulder and gently turned him, until he was facing her directly.  Then, she lifted the other hand, letting it rest against the left part of his chest.  Only then did Sherlock notice that his heart was racing.  _Curious_ , he mused, but outwardly, remained unfazed.

“But you do _feel_ ,” she whispered.  “I know you do.”

For once, Sherlock was left speechless.  He simply stared at Molly as she saw right through him, right into the deepest corners of his soul, which not even John had seen.  It was moments such as this when he realized, more and more, that Molly was the only person who truly saw _him_.  Not the intelligence, the “high-functioning sociopath,” or even the consulting detective.  She saw a man, a man who felt far more than he was willing to admit, particularly for a certain pathologist.  And it was this knowledge, this possibility that she could actually _see_ this, that frightened him most of all.

Sherlock was simultaneously disappointed and relieved when Molly withdrew her hands and returned to her own observations.  He felt suddenly colder, and a bit empty.  _A bit like a tin man_ , he thought with a wry smile.  But the thought didn’t anger him, and the fear seemed to have subsided.  For this Tin Man had, beyond all expectation, found his heart.


End file.
